"Mom's not breathing."

Easter morning, 1983, my mom received a phone call from her brother. "Mom's not breathing."

"What does that mean?"

And then she burst into tears. I was in the dining room, digging through a basket of chocolates, feeling sad for my mommy, but also really enjoying the fact that I was allowed to eat all the chocolates I want. She told me recently about that story again, laughing that "they always tried to protect me, even from horrible news."

Yesterday afternoon, I called my uncle and relayed the same message to him: Mom's not breathing.

Patsy died at 1:07pm on Sunday, September 9, holding hands with my dad (and wearing one of my band t-shirts) in that same dining room where I hid and ate all the chocolate I could in April of 1983.

It was a hard morning as her body fought so hard, not wanting to shut down. Her heart worked overtime and her lungs struggled, and a hospice nurse came to adjust pain medications to help her relax. We adjusted her to help her breath a little more easily, but her lungs worked harder and harder and then finally stopped.

We are all incredibly sad, and also relieved -- a difficult feeling that I have learned so many people know all too well.

Arrangement information to follow, but it will likely be Friday afternoon/evening at Highlands Funeral Home, followed by a memorial celebration somewhere inside the Watterson (Mom's explicit instructions).

KENNY will be having surgery as planned on Tuesday, September 18th, to remove the tumor from his sinus. The doctors seem optimistic; the radiation worked and shrunk the original 5cm tumor down to where they are pretty sure his eye will not be affected. He'll need to heal, and then will eventually have some follow-up radiation to destroy any remaining cancer cells.

Love to you all, and thank you for the well-wishes and meal delivery.


Comments

  1. May your loving memories give you some comfort and peace.

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